


Dry Spell

by angelicaschuyler



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Appendicitis, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, QPQVerse, Romance, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicaschuyler/pseuds/angelicaschuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yeah, he was looking forward to getting fucked every which way in their weird Canadian luxury tent. But he’s not sure why George seems convinced he’s internally pouting about it. They’ve been together a little over two years now - yeah, the fancy trips and the gifts are great, Alex would never deny that for the sake of sounding humble, but he loves George’s company. Loves him. Loves him in the kind of way that, if George lost everything tomorrow, Alex wouldn’t even blink an eye. George knows that, too. But Alex is fine with reminding him.</p><p>George has an appendectomy. It's Alex's turn to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dry Spell

**Author's Note:**

> So, this got a little long.
> 
> As always, thanks to [rillrill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill) for letting us ride on her coattails. This is part of the [Quid Pro Quo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157) verse, but can be read independently. 
> 
> Enjoy!

George hasn’t been himself since they came home from dinner. He’s been quiet - more than usual. A few glasses of cabernet and he’s usually warm and chatty, adorably handsy. 

Not tonight, though. Alex reflects on the evening as they both dress for bed in silence. They didn’t bicker, not even over which appetizers to order for the table. It was a perfectly romantic, comfortable evening at one of their favorite tucked-away spots in Chinatown. A rather typical Saturday night for them. Alex would know by now if he’d said something out of line - George has quite a way of telling him. 

He’s about to pull George’s faded navy blue University of Virginia t-shirt over his head when he grins to himself and thinks better of it - shoves it back in the dresser drawer and sits on the foot of the bed instead, heart pounding and feeling incredibly exposed in only his green plaid boxer shorts. It’s kind of remarkable, he thinks while he stares at George’s bare back, admiring the way his shoulder blades move as he tugs on a cotton t-shirt of his own - remarkable how this man can still make his heart flutter with anticipation. 

“Did you still wanna - ?” he asks around a yawn, grinning sheepishly when George turns around to face him. He doesn’t look well - eyes glassy, an odd grayish tint to his skin. Alex’s smile drops, almost asks George if he’s feeling all right, but he loses his words almost as soon as George steps forward and knocks his knees apart, squeezes between them and presses Alex back into the duvet.

And that does it. Alex moans happily into George’s shoulder, scrapes his collarbone with his teeth, hooks his ankles just above his ass - anything to bring him closer than he already is. He arches his back, chest out, lets George noisily suck little red marks just above his right nipple, tongue flicking out to tease as he clumsily tugs at the waistband of Alex’s boxers, and then - 

George freezes with a sharp inhale and jerks back. Alex’s hand flies up instinctively to grab his hip, keep him from moving away entirely as he struggles to catch his own breath. His vision comes back into focus and he sees George hovering over him, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted and one hand planted firmly in the mattress next to Alex’s head while the other grips his right side. Alex moves his own hand away from George’s hip and grazes his fingertips over his knuckles, frowning down at the spot his boyfriend is clutching. 

“George? What’s wrong?”

George’s eyelids flutter open and he stares down at him, brown eyes shining and brow knitted. Alex squeezes his hand, hoping it’s comforting, even as he feels his own anxiety snowballing in the pit of his stomach.   

“I think I have a cramp,” George mutters, gingerly climbing off of Alex and rolling onto his back with a sigh. He drums his fingers over his right hip, over the fabric of his t-shirt. “It’s been bothering me all evening, but now it’s - just really kicking in. I’m sorry, Alex, I don’t know if I can manage tonight.”

Alex frowns and rolls over onto his side, propping his elbow up on the bed and resting his head in his palm. “Was it something you ate? It was that crab, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you say something at dinner? Sorry - ” he says off of the look George gives him, sitting upright and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Let me get you a bottle of water. Where do you keep that heating pad?”

“No,” George says, grabbing Alex around the wrist and tugging him back down next to him. He goes easily - happily - but his heart still aches at the site of George’s face, pinched in pain. 

“You’re so old,” Alex says affectionately, pecking him on the cheek when he rolls his eyes. “You don’t get cramps when you run, do you?”

“Never,” George says, shifting his weight and wincing. Alex lets out a sympathetic hiss, squeezes his bicep. “Let me just sleep it off. Sorry – again. I’ll make it up to you on our trip.”

“You’d better,” Alex says, pulling the sheets and duvet over both of them and twisting around so his face is buried in George’s chest, one arm limply slung over his waist. He hums contently when he feels George’s fingers creep up on the nape of his neck, twirling his hair. “But it’s fine. Seriously. I was getting tired, anyway – annnd, I can’t believe I just said that. You’re cramping up and I’m falling asleep. Jesus.”

George chuckles softly, his chest vibrating under Alex’s cheek. “It’s a good thing we have the August recess, then. So we can – what’s the phrasing? – ‘reignite the passion in our relationship.’”

“Ugh,” Alex scoffs. “Sounds like a _Men’s Health_ headline. And I think we’re plenty passionate, thanks.”

“It was a joke,” George says – another little shudder and a hiss he tries to hide for Alex’s benefit, though he can feel the way George’s body tenses under him. “Go to sleep. We’ll do brunch before our flight.”

“Uh uh. No,” Alex says, tilting his head up so he’s staring at George’s chin. An unflattering angle for anyone else, but Alex is convinced he doesn’t have a bad side. Has yet to see it. “I’ll cook you something here. You’ve got too much shit in your fridge that’s going to spoil while we’re gone. Seriously, I know that’s not really a thing for you, but it drives me fucking crazy –”

“OK, OK,” George says, giving his hair another tug, a little rough this time. “That’s fine. Go to sleep, Alexander.”

Alex has a lot of opinions on George’s grocery shopping habits – some he’s shared, others he’s kept to himself. _Another day,_ he tells himself as he nuzzles closer, finally closing his eyes.

* * *

He wakes up with a start to the sound of George’s alarm – one of those generic iPhone ringtones. Sometime during the night, he rolled off of George and onto his stomach. He blinks sleepily at the digital clock on the bedside table. 10:30 a.m. – he can’t remember the last time he slept this late, but it’s enough time to finish up some last minute packing, prepare a nice brunch, and still make it to airport.

British Columbia. He doesn’t even know where the fuck in British Columbia. Somewhere in the wilderness. When George had first said, “luxury tents,” he could barely contain his laughter. But the more he read about the resort, the more it grew on him – this idea of being unplugged from everything else, spending a decent chunk of their August recess with his boyfriend in a fancy tent and a spa package. Not bad. “The tents even have showers and toilets,” he’d told George while reading over the amenities. “We could _live_ there.”

Alex grabs George’s phone, turns off the alarm and rolls over to face him. They still have quite a bit of time to kill, and he wonders if he’d be up for finishing what they started last night. But then – George is curled around a pillow, hugging it against his chest. Beads of sweat on his forehead, breathing stuttered and uneven. Alex’s stomach drops. He throws his blankets back and sits upright.

“George?” he calls out, hands balling into fists, not sure if he should reach out and touch him. George opens his eyes – he’s awake. Probably didn’t sleep well if he’s in this much pain. “Honey, I think you have food poisoning.”

George screws his eyes shut, shakes his head. “I’m not sure – I don’t know if it’s that.”

Alex scrambles for his phone, pulls up Google. “What are your symptoms? I’ll WebMD it.”

“WebMD? Alexander.”

George slowly stands up and starts for the bathroom. But Alex immediately notices the way he sways and stumbles, dizzy and unsteady on his feet, and decides that – yeah, George isn’t locking himself alone in the bathroom. He’ll hurt himself. He grabs the back of George’s shirt, tugs him back until he’s sitting on the bed.

“Baby, you need to lie back down,” he says softly, kneading George’s shoulders and frowning at the way he tenses. Alex thinks, distantly, that the pet names might be overkill, but they’re slipping out, anyway. He knows that George is trying to be strong, but Alex wants him to know it’s OK, that he can break a little, let Alex take care of him for once –

“I think I need to go to the hospital.”

“Wait, what?”

“It’s just getting worse,” George says, and to Alex’s relief, he does lie back and close his eyes. Alex rests the back of his hand against his forehead – he’s warm, feverish. “Here’s what I need you to do. Call Lafayette. We’ll all three go to the ER together, say we were meeting for a work brunch when I started feeling ill. I don’t think anyone at the hospital will particularly notice or care if they see us together on a Sunday morning, but we need to be careful. We’ll just play it by ear from there. Good?”

Alex nods slowly, processing, as he fumbles with his phone. He feels like an idiot. Of course George would want a hospital. And he’d tried to give him a fucking heating pad and WebMD his symptoms. What the fuck? And now George is – well, he’s being George, thinking ahead and calling the shots when Alex should be the one taking care of him. It must show on his face, because George reaches out and grabs his wrist, just as he taps Lafayette’s number.

“Alex. It’s all right.”

Alex’s eyes prick with tears – that’s fucking stupid, he thinks, considering he’s not the one about to go to the emergency room. He paces the bedroom as he talks to Lafayette, hears his keys jingle on the other line almost as soon as the words “George” and “emergency room” leave Alex’s lips.

It’s not the first time - won’t be the last - Alex thanks God for Lafayette.

He makes sure George is comfortable – as comfortable as he can be – and then waits in the living room for Lafayette to ring the bell. He wants to give him some breathing room – try not to hover – but he also needs to get _himself_ together. George is in impeccable shape, infuriatingly healthy. Actually goes to his annual physical exam and shit. Alex knows this is probably nothing – just some bad seafood. He’s going to be _fine._ Yet his mind is still racing, racing, racing…

When Lafayette arrives, the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose are the only indicator it’s even a Sunday. He’s dressed in maroon slacks and a freshly pressed white and blue checkered dress shirt. Frankly, it makes Alex – still only in his boxers, likely looking like he’s risen from the grave despite the extra few hours of sleep – a little angry.

“What?” Lafayette asks as he steps inside the apartment, and Alex realizes he must have unintentionally shot him a dirty look. Whoops. “You said business brunch was the, uh - ‘cover story.’ This is what I would wear to such a thing.”

Alex tosses him George’s car keys. “You drive. We’re going to the Georgetown ER. I’ll stay with him in the backseat.”

* * *

It’s appendicitis. The doctors have to go with an open rather than a laparoscopic surgery for reasons Alex doesn’t quite process at the time. It’s not unheard of for someone George’s age, but not exactly common, they say. It’s a routine and quick surgery - just a little over an hour, no complications. That doesn’t stop Alex from choking up when he’s hiding out in George’s car in the parking garage, on the phone with Martha.

She says she wants to come home early from vacationing with Eliza in Reykjavik, and Alex has to admit - having Martha home would almost certainly be a relief. She’d know what to do. George would be properly cared for. But Eliza’s been furiously organizing her travel board on Pinterest for months now. She’d do her quiet rage thing if she had to come back a week into her trip, all while insisting it’s _fine_. Alex knows how she works by now.

By the end of their conversation, Alex convinces Martha to stay by promising daily updates and a phone call from George as soon as he’s feeling up for it. Alex makes a few calls for their own trip - cancels flights, arranges a deal with their resort so they can reschedule their stay at their own convenience. One less thing for George to worry about when he wakes up. 

And, when he does wake up, the doctors say they need to keep him at the hospital for one more night. Then, it’s off to Mount Vernon - a proper place to heal, away from the hustle and bustle of D.C. It’ll be a good two weeks before he’s completely on his feet again, his surgeon says, but he should be walking every day to get his strength back. It’ll be another 4-6 weeks before he can be “intimate.” 

It’s a struggle for Alex - willing himself not to make a face when the surgeon reads _that_ off of George’s care sheet. 

Seems a little fucking excessive.

* * *

“This scar, baby, is going to be so sexy when it heals.”

He has George set up in one of the first-floor bedrooms that faces the Potomac. The flowers Lafayette and Adrienne sent - thirty-six pale pastel roses framed with baby’s breath - are displayed beautifully on top of the dresser. Alex read something online about how putting something green and alive in a patient’s room lifts spirits, helps with recovery. The roses are a bit on the lavish side, bordering on inadvertently romantic, but they’re very - well, French. They add a nice touch to the impersonal spare bedroom.

George wearily cocks an eyebrow up at him and Alex grins from where he sits propped against the headboard, fingers brushing George’s soft skin just above his surgical tape. His stomach is still swollen in a way Alex isn’t used to, but it’s not a bad thing - kind of endearing, oddly enough. Makes Alex want to kiss just below his navel, the same way George always does with him. But he can’t push it - not with this bullshit 4-6 weeks mandated dry spell. 

There’s a tiny part of him that wants to ask George if he really thinks they need to wait that long - but he decides, nope, that’s an incredibly rude thing to ask your boyfriend one day after surgery. Not when he’s sustaining himself on green juice and a cocktail of painkillers. George is probably waiting for it to come up, anyway.

“It’s gonna be hot,” Alex says again, scooting down on the bed so he’s sprawled out next to George, head resting on his shoulder. “Really, _really_ hot. Just you wait.”

George scoffs into Alex’s hair and tugs his shirt down and over his stomach. “I don’t really understand the appeal.”

Alex rolls his eyes and sits up again, grabbing George’s MacBook where he’s left it at the foot of the bed, nuzzles back into his side. It’s been a long couple days, and he can tell George isn’t really in the mood for, well, anything. 

“What do you want to watch?” he asks, flipping the laptop open. “ _Citizen Kane_? MIT lectures? I know how much you like those - ”

“It’s eight o’clock, Alexander. I think I’m going to go to bed.”

“Oh, yeah - OK,” Alex nods, trying to disguise his disappointment as he closes the laptop and sets it on the bedside table. Fair enough. “I was thinking - I think I’m going to stay in the other room for a couple nights? You know how much I move around when I sleep. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Alex is pretty sure he sees George’s face fall, just slightly, and it makes him feel a little guilty. He should be able to relax, unwind enough to share a bed with his own boyfriend without kneeing him in the gut. But he doesn’t trust himself. 

He climbs off the bed and plugs George’s iPhone into its charger, setting it next to him on the mattress. “Just call my phone if you need something, OK?”

George nods and - there’s that smile, even if he’s so exhausted it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I will. Thank you.”

It’s too early for Alex to sleep, though. He busies himself around the kitchen, chopping up a salad with some fruit one of the gardeners left on the countertop, eating most of the blackberries as he goes. He tries to tackle the stack of books he’d planned to read over their vacation - can’t bring himself to focus, though. He eventually falls asleep draped across the home theater’s sectional, watching some weird ass Netflix documentary about the Mothman. 

He wakes up around 1 a.m. to a call from George, rolls off the couch and all but runs to his room, helping him sit up and walking him into the attached bathroom. 

_This is some married people shit,_ Alex thinks to himself as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, blinking sleepily and waiting for George to finish up. He helps him pull on his silk pajama pants when it hurts too much to bend over, helps him back to bed and holds the glass of water to his lips after he swallows his painkillers.

“I’m fairly certain I can hold my water on my own,” George says, burying himself back into bed. Alex smirks and helps him with the blankets, kissing his forehead and nearly laughing when George audibly grumbles. 

He almost climbs in next to him, thinks maybe he’s tired enough at this point that he might sleep like a rock. But then George is out like a light, snoring softly, and Alex smiles at the sight - knows he can’t disturb him - so he plugs George’s phone back into its charger and leaves the room - likely the quietest exit he’s ever made.

* * *

In hindsight, making an elaborate brunch for a man with a post-surgery appetite was a pretty shitty idea.

George makes it halfway through the honey vanilla greek yogurt (mixed with coconut macaroon granola, Alex was especially proud of that addition). It’s the spinach, mushroom and bacon crepe that gives him pause. 

“Alex, this is - I’m sure it’s delicious. It _looks_ delicious.”

Alex turns from where he’s pulling plates out of the dishwasher and frowns, moving to sit on the counter stool next to George. “What’s wrong? I mean, it’s kind of my own recipe - ”

“I don’t know if I can keep it down right now,” George admits, setting his fork on the counter and leaning against the back of his stool. 

Alex doesn’t respond, just takes George’s fork and cuts off a section of the crepe for himself. He pops it in his mouth and chews. He decides it’s pretty damn good. But getting George out of bed and into the kitchen was ambitious enough, he thinks. Probably shouldn’t try to push it. 

“Sorry,” Alex says around a mouthful of crepe, dragging George’s plate over to his side of the counter. He’s not really that hungry himself, but he doesn’t want it to go completely to waste. “This was stupid. I should’ve known - ”

“It wasn’t stupid,” George says, resting a heavy hand on his thigh, kneading it through the thick denim of his jeans. “I do want to try it. Perhaps in the next couple days.”

OK, so brunch was a complete and total bust. That’s OK. He still has other shit up his sleeve. Alex clears his throat a little too loudly and slips off the counter stool, missing the weight of George’s palm on his leg but - seriously, if George keeps that up, it’s going to become a problem. 

“This,” he says, ducking into the mudroom and returning with a large paper bag in his arms. He sets it on the countertop, in front of George. “Is all for you. I went shopping this morning while you were asleep.”

George stares at the paper bag for a moment - brow knitted, twitchy frown. And Alex knows that look - it’s his bummed out, you-spent-your-own-money-on-me face. 

“Don’t do the face,” Alex warns, pointing at him sternly, but George just shifts in his stool and crosses his arms. Continues to make _that_ face.

It’s the same look he got after Alex surprised him with center orchestra tickets to the touring production of _The Sound of Music_ a few months ago _._ “Surprises don’t work if you see them on your credit card statement,” Alex had told him that night. George couldn’t argue with that. And it’s not like Alex doesn’t have money to spare, with the way George insists on taking care of him.

“Alexander - ”

“Calm down, old man. I went to a CVS Pharmacy, not Barneys. You just had an appendectomy, I’m pretty sure I can spend $35 on you. Jesus Christ.”

George stares him down in a way that makes Alex’s breath freeze in his lungs, and then - the ghost of a smile.

“OK. _Fine_. What do you have?”

Alex grins and digs in the bag, pulling out two pairs of black sweat pants. “These were, like, $8.50 each but they’re super soft. I got them a size bigger- I know you already have comfy pants but I thought maybe this would be better? Since they’re not as fitted - ”

“You’re rambling, hon. Those are great. Thank you.”

Alex wags his fingers at him. “Not done,” he says, pulling out a red and gold tin and setting it in front of George. “Assorted Ferrero Rocher chocolates. The best CVS Pharmacy has to offer. And - ” He slaps two magazines down on the counter, side by side. “The most recent issues of _The Atlantic_ and _The New Yorker_ , for all your old person reading needs. Wait, fuck - you have subscriptions. Shit.”

George smiles, folds the cover of _The New Yorker_ back and flips through a couple pages. “Don’t worry about it, Alex. This is sweet. Thank you. You didn’t have to do any of this.”

Alex folds his arms over his chest, frowning down at the chocolate tin. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like enough. Seems sort of lame. Some cheap pants, chocolates and magazines George has already read three times over. “OK. I kind of feel like I’m doing a bad job.”

George looks up from the table of contents he’s scanning over - probably just trying to be polite, Alex thinks grumpily. “Hey, don’t say that. You’re doing a great job. You shouldn’t even be worrying yourself like this, Alex, I’m fine. In fact, I was thinking - since our vacation fell through - ” he pulls out his phone, scrolls through his inbox. “I was emailing one of my good college friends earlier this morning, trying to see if I might be able to set something up for you. She’s out in Edinburgh now - I’m sure I could get you a suite at the Balmoral, overlooking the castle, no problem. And she’d be happy to meet you somewhere in the city, show you around -”

Alex stands frozen a minute, trying to digest what George is (so casually) suggesting, and then holds up both hands, stopping him mid-sentence. “Whoa whoa, wait. No. I’m not going to Edinburgh without you, and I’m especially not leaving you after a surgery.”

George sighs, sets his phone down and stares into the far corner of the kitchen. “I don’t want you to spend the entirety of the August recess holed up here with me. You’re going to get bored.”

“I’m not going to get bored!” Alex says, hating the way it comes out as a whine. “We can go stay in the damn luxury tents next summer. They’re going to let us rebook. You’re always flying me out to all corners of the world, anyway. Maybe we need a break from taking a break. Just enjoy Mount Vernon.”

George looks at him now, frowning. “I thought you liked our trips.”

“I _do,_ that’s not what I’m - OK, can we not fight about this?” Alex says, taken aback, because when in his life has he ever uttered those words? Damn it, George. “I don’t want to go to Edinburgh.”

George looks a little put out, but he finally nods, fiddling with the corner of his magazine. “All right. That’s fine. Well. I think I want to lie back down again.”

Alex nods, turns his back to George and rolls his eyes before silently helps him back to the bedroom, helps him change into his new pants all while desperately trying to ignore his bare thighs and the way the baggy sweats hang low on his hips. George makes a few overly-polite comments about how comfortable they are in a way that doesn’t necessarily feel disingenuous, but Alex can definitely tell he’s trying to ease up whatever tension has grown between them. 

Then - Alex can’t resist. He pecks the corner of his mouth while helping him back into bed - let’s him know _it’s fine._ Alex is still a little pissy, still a little jolted by George wanting to ship him off to Edinburgh alone, and for bringing it up in a way that made it sound like a trip to the grocery store. He collapses onto the other side of the bed, next to George, playing around on his phone while listening to his boyfriend’s breathing even out as he falls asleep. 

* * *

The first night he has to help George take a shower, he pops a boner pretty much immediately.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, thankful that, if he’s blushing, at least his face is already red from the hot water. He tries to think of unsexy things. Hospital smells. Old, used cat litter. But he’s still standing at attention when they’re out of the shower - while he’s helping George back into his clothes. He ties a towel around his own waist.

George looks at him with something like pity in his eyes, which for some ridiculous reason Alex can’t process turns him on even more. They’re back on the bed together, George’s fingers lazily twirling his hair, when Alex feels his hand slowly move down his stomach and under the top of the towel.

“Babe,” Alex says, twisting his hips away and grabbing George’s wrist. “C’mon. No. That’s not fair.”

George hesitates, then pulls his hand back, resting it on top of his own stomach. Alex turns his head to one side so he can get a good look at George’s profile - he looks fucking exhausted and, well, Alex actually loves sleepy sex. Loves to be moved around and played with, loves it when George has had an especially tiring day and just wants Alex to ride him. He loves it all. But it’s better when they both can actually, like, move. 

He distantly thinks about the “a sad handjob” Cards Against Humanity card and starts to laugh, earning himself an inquisitive look from George. He decides he can’t really explain that one - doesn’t think George even knows what Cards Against Humanity is.

“I know your surgeon said 4-6 weeks,” Alex says carefully, rolling onto his side, closing the distance between them. “But that’s just like, intercourse, right? I’m not complaining, I’m just - obviously you don’t have to worry about anything but getting better. Just…you know. Curious.”

George sighs, rolls his shoulders back into the bed and closes his eyes. “I’m sure we could try. Maybe next week. But truthfully, Alexander, I just feel drained.”

“Yeah. No - that’s fine. Seriously. I can wait.”

George sighs again, tugs him a little closer and kisses the top of his head. “I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, sweetheart, but I really am sorry this week isn’t what you expected. You’ve been working so hard for me.”

Alex closes his eyes and breathes in George’s woodsy body wash, letting the familiar scent fill his nostrils. Yeah, he was looking forward to getting fucked every which way in their weird Canadian luxury tent. But he’s not sure why George seems convinced he’s internally pouting about it. They’ve been together a little over two years now - yeah, the fancy trips and the gifts are great, Alex would never deny that for the sake of sounding humble, but he loves George’s company. Loves _him_. Loves him in the kind of way that, if George lost everything tomorrow, Alex wouldn’t even blink an eye. George knows that, too. But Alex is fine with reminding him.

“I still get to spend it with you,” Alex says, shrugging his shoulder lazily. “That’s always enough.”

George turns his head to face him, dark eyes soft. “I don’t want you in the guest room tonight. You’re not going to hurt me.”

Alex starts to protest, but then George is wrapping his arms around him, pulling him in closer, nuzzling his hair, hot breath that smells like peppermint mouthwash against his cheek. And, well, that’s that.

He sleeps soundly that night.

* * *

Alex sets it up in one of the spare storage rooms on the third floor of the house. Pushes some furniture and boxes to the side, and gets to work. It takes him nearly three hours to get it just right - an entire morning. He spends a lot of time looking at Eliza’s Pinterest board for ideas before realizing the pictures, well - those are some un-fucking-realistic expectations.

By the end of it all, he’s on his back in the middle of the room, staring up at his work. Practically sweating. Yeah, definitely not like the pictures. But it’ll have to do.

The next part takes less time, but shit, this is more crafting than he’s ever done in his entire life. He’s halfway through it when he starts to freak out a bit - wonders if it’s too cheesy, too adolescent for George to enjoy. He sets it aside, decides he’ll bring it out if the first part goes well. 

Later in the afternoon, George is able to eat a full lunch without feeling like he’s going to vomit. So Alex takes that as permission to go all out that evening for dinner. Nothing too robust, nothing too bland - a big fruit salad, pecan chicken, some gnocchi. George helps himself to a second plate, his appetite finally catching back up with him, praising Alex’s cooking as he eats. That hits Alex unexpectedly hard, warms him up a bit. He always has loved cooking for George. And thank God, too. The man could probably cook better blindfolded. 

“Should we watch a movie tonight?” George asks once the table has been cleared and the plates are loaded in the dishwasher. He leans back happily in his chair, smiling up at Alex as he busies himself around the kitchen.

Alex smirks, stops behind his chair and rests his hands on George’s shoulders, leans down when George tilts his head back for a kiss.

“Not tonight,” he says, wiggling one eyebrow and going back in, kissing the tip of George’s nose. “Tonight, we’re going up to the attic.”

George shoots him a puzzled look, but otherwise plays along. Lets Alex help him up the stairs - apologizing the entire time, “I’m sorry, baby, but it’s worth it - a few more steps” - and, yes, it _is_ worth it for the look on George’s face when he sees what Alex has made for him.

The glow of the yellow fairy lights lights, the golden and red wine-colored fabrics draped and tented from wall to wall, a corner piled with bohemian floor pillows and warm blankets. It doesn’t all match - it’s probably a fire hazard, Alex realizes, but George is sucking on his bottom lip, his eyes a little misty - or maybe that’s just the way the warm lights hit him. Alex doesn’t know. 

He’d been scrolling through the photo gallery on their resort’s website when the idea struck him - bring the damned luxury tents to Mount Vernon. Why the hell not? Make it a little whimsical, throw in some lights, make it feel like they’d walked straight into Starry Night Over the Rhone. Yeah, the picture in his head was a lot better. But isn’t that how it always goes? 

“This was kind of a shot in the dark,” Alex admits, taking George’s hand and leading him to the center of the room. George has to duck his head to keep from walking face first into the draped fabrics, so Alex helps him sit on one of the sleeping mats, sets him up with one of the massive floor pillows. 

“I know it’s kind of over the top,” Alex continues, worrying his bottom lip. “And it’s not, like, the fucking Canadian wilderness or a luxury tent. But it’s still OK, right? You like it?”

George’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised. “Alex. This is the most…romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. You did this by yourself?”

“While you were sleeping, yeah,” Alex shrugs, plopping down next to him on the sleeping mat. “I won’t lie, halfway through I seriously thought about hiring an interior decorator to just do it for me. But I figured that kind of defeats the purpose. God, this is like, too much, right? I mean, it’s probably too uncomfortable for you to sleep up here, right - ?”

“Shh,” George says, kissing his jaw, under his ear. Alex’s eyes flutter shut and he leans back against the pillows, giving George time to adjust himself, get comfortable. Moans when he starts to suck on that same sweet spot before moving down and licking the ledge of his collarbone.

“Fuck,” Alex gasps, his entire body jerking. He twists away. “Stop that.” 

He carefully untangles himself and sits back up, straightening his shirt. He looks back down at George, which is a mistake, because he’s looking at him with some obscene mix of adoration and hunger. 

“OK,” Alex says weakly. “This is also, like, super cheesy. So just don’t laugh, OK? It’s, like, straight off of Eliza’s Pinterest board. I thought it would be kind of fun, but, well - never mind. You’ll just have to see.”

Alex pulls out a green-tinted mason jar, stuffed with popsicle sticks, from behind one of the pillows. He holds it out for George to see. 

“OK, so, each popsicle stick has a date night idea on it,” he says, watching George’s face carefully for any sign of disapproval. “Some people go real crazy with the lettering and decorating and whatnot, but I just wrote it in Sharpie pen, so it’s not, like, super fancy. Sorry. Anyway - we pull one out whenever we’re bored or don’t know what to do that night and it’s, like, supposed to keep things fresh and romantic.”

George pulls one of the sticks out.

“‘Dirty truth or dare.’”

“Fun - but a bad example. Try another.”

George puts it back, pulls out a second.

“‘Fuck in a public bathroom,’” he reads, deadpan.

“Jesus,” Alex mutters, pulling out a third. “OK, here we go! ‘Do a puzzle together.’ Aww.”

George smiles, takes the jar from him and sets it down next to the mat. “You wrote all of those?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, feeling his face flush. “They’re not all filthy. I promise. Just, like, 60 percent of them. And - you know how you said this is, like, the most romantic thing anyone’s done for you? Well this is by _far_ the most romantic, disgusting shit I’ve ever done for anyone else. And I’ve been kind of flipping out about it all day. So, you know. I love you. But I’m also sitting on your dick pretty much as soon as we hit the four week mark. Like, at the stroke of midnight.”

George cocks an eyebrow. “There’s the Alex I know.”

Alex grins and falls back down next to him, admiring the way the yellow lights flatter his skin and dance in his eyes. Yeah. With this view, he’s pretty sure he can wait another few weeks.

* * *

 

**Also for the Quid Pro Quo verse:**

[Destinations](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6293752)

* * *

 

[Luxury Camping - George and Alex's resort](http://www.wildretreat.com/)

[Reykjavik - Martha and Eliza's trip](https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8482/8262899594_06bebefd77_b.jpg)

[Lafayette and Adrienne's flowers](http://thefrenchbouquettulsa.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/Sahara-Rose-and-Babys-Breath-Centerpiece-in-Low-Silver-Vase-Kevin-Paul-Photography-The-French-Bouquet.jpg)

[The attic](https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/enhanced/webdr06/2013/8/11/3/enhanced-buzz-4411-1376204633-0.jpg?no-auto)

[Starry Night Over the Rhone](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/94/Starry_Night_Over_the_Rhone.jpg/1024px-Starry_Night_Over_the_Rhone.jpg)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [a-schuyler](http://a-schuyler.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, if you'd like to say hi!


End file.
